


Reefer Magic

by WhenasInSilks



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: F/M, Humor, I did apparently, Parody, Who thought this was a good idea, stoner comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-07-19 02:51:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7341610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenasInSilks/pseuds/WhenasInSilks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah’s mellowed out a lot since she ran the Labyrinth. Like, a <em>lot</em> a lot. The Goblin King is about to find out just how much.</p><p>S/J, forever and ever. Or, at least as long as there’s a steady supply of herb, and given the rate the goblins are burning through Sarah’s stash, forever might not be long at all…</p><p>Updated sporadically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The latest chapter of _Tithe_ is murdifying me. I’ve sent what could pass for a draft off to the wonderful syntheticaesthetic, in hopes that her fresh brain can do what my worn out one can’t. And then there this was on my laptop…
> 
> This story is 100% crack. It really wasn’t my intention to write anything else about drug use. But then Asmallcateatingasmallmilk commented on the first chapter of _Tithe_ , saying that they’d like to see Sarah go with the Goblin King because she couldn’t find her friends and was too high to know any better. I didn’t particularly connect with that from a dramatic point of view, but as _parody_ … Thus the birth of Stoner!Sarah. I’m not sure whether writing a fic for the (possibly non-existent) Labyrinth/stoner comedy crossover demographic is the best or worst idea of my life.
> 
> To be clear, I’m pretty sure this wasn’t what Asmallcateatingasmallmilk meant or wanted, so while all credit goes to them for the original idea and inspiring this fic, all blame for its execution should go to me.
> 
> Sarah’s friends are named in honour my neighbours across the hall freshman year, the sweetest guys ever to receive multiple citations for recreational drug use on a notoriously permissive college campus. I’ve been fortunate enough to call many a stoner friend (or family) in my life, but I’ve never been more than an occasional smoker myself, so I apologise for any inaccuracies. Her roommate is based very very loosely off my freshman year roommate, who also disapproved of my sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll lifestyle (well, to be perfectly accurate, it was more like sex, cheap booze, and Lady Gaga) but was far nicer about it.
> 
> Also, listened exclusively to the Talking Heads while writing this. So blame David Byrne.
> 
> This story will be updated as frequently as I need breaks from all the drama in _Tithe_. Fun fact: writing romance is a lot easier when Sarah is too stoned to care about how much of a dick Jareth can be.
> 
> PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.

_Chapter_ _1: In which Sarah gets high and meets an old acquaintance, and the Goblin King experiences cultural difficulties_

* * *

Sarah wrestled her jeans back over her hips. It had not been without good reason, given the severity of the campus-wide crackdown and all the pointed and vaguely threatening comments her roommate had taken to making recently, that Davy had insisted they go so far into Seward’s Woods to light up. And of course, any experienced smoker knew it was always a good idea to stay hydrated when smoking, and Sarah was nothing if not experienced. But, as it turned out, Seward’s Woods suffered from a serious lack of bathroom facilities, and the payoff was squatting on unsteady legs, bare-assed in the middle of a forest. It was all very well for Davy and Maurice, who could just unzip their jeans wherever they wanted to, while Ros, as she had informed Sarah with what Sarah considered quite disproportionate pride, had a bladder of steel.

Sarah, having finally succeeded in fumbling the button of her fly shut, picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder, squinting around at all the trees in an effort to determine which way she’d come from. The pleasant vista of grey trunks and green leaves which met her eyes from every direction was … unhelpfully generic.

“Hey, you guys ready for another bowl?” she called.

There was no response, which was strange. Davy Berkowitz in particular was famed in certain circles for the highly selective acuteness of his hearing ability: he could pick up on the sound of someone offering to smoke him out anywhere within a half mile radius.

“You guys?” she called again.

No answer except the vague rustlings and twitterings of the deep woods.

She shrugged, turned towards a slightly less unfamiliar looking clump of trees, and set off.

“Hey, where are you guys?” she called as she stumbled through the undergrowth. “Davy? Ros? Maurice?”

Somewhere behind her and to her left, she heard a strange shrieking noise, what sounded like muffled shouting, and some crashing noises. Wheeling about, she began jogging towards the noise, but before long, the crunching noise of her progress and her labored breathing had obscured any other sounds.

She came to a halt, propping herself against a nearby tree to catch her breath: three years of daily smoking hadn’t done her lung capacity any favors. Once she could breathe properly again, she looked around her.

“Guys?” she called out again, staring intently through the trees. Twilight was settling in fast, and long shadows stretched between the trunks.

Still no answer.

“Come _on_.” Her heart was beginning to pound unpleasantly in her chest. She scrubbed her hands furiously over her face, took a deep breath, and was glancing around for a likely looking path when—

“Hello, precious,” came a soft, silky voice.

Sarah froze.

* * *

The Goblin King stepped out of the shadows, resplendent in black lacquered armor and a dark velvet cloak that rippled appealingly despite the lack of wind, not to mention the surplus of trees, branches, and shrubs which really ought to have impeded its movement.

“I’ve been—”

He stopped. Sarah was bent over, gasping, hand clutched to her heart.

“Holy shit,” she yelped, and then broke off to do a bit more gasping and clutching. “Holy _shit_ , don’t _do_ that, man!”

“Do…?” Jareth was at a loss. There were many things that Sarah could conceivably yell at him for doing, but he hadn’t actually _done_ any of them yet. He was feeling, frankly, a bit cheated.

“Don’t _sneak up_ on people like that! I thought you were campus security! Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I’m … sorry?” Jareth ventured. “I hadn’t intended to startle you.” Truth be told, he had, a little. Just not _that_ much. He wasn’t entirely sure what a heart attack _was_ , but from the sound of it, it wasn’t anything good.

“It’s cool,” Sarah said, flapping a hand at him. She straightened at last, made to lean her back against the nearest tree, missed, and landed on the ground with a thump.

Jareth started forward. Sarah was making some strange noises, not unlike an animal in pain, but as he drew closer, he realized she was laughing. Well, to be perfectly accurate, _snorting_.

“Pretty smooth,” she chuckled, waving away his proffered hand and clambering to her feet. With exaggerated care, she placed her feet at stable locations between the roots and lowered herself against the trunk of the tree.

Jareth was frowning. Something was wrong here. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but things were _not_ going according to script. He pressed on anyway.

“Sarah Williams, I have been waiting for this moment for five long years,” he began.

“Really? Five years? That’s like, super patient of you,” said Sarah, sounding impressed. “I can barely wait for dinner. Hey, is that _armor_? Are you wearing _armor_?”

The next thing he knew, she had launched herself from the tree and was stooping before him, eyes level with his chest, one hand on his shoulder to steady herself.

Jareth froze in place, hardly daring to breathe. To have her so close—after so _long_ — He wasn’t sure they’d ever been this close before, except perhaps in dreams. Surreptitiously, he inhaled, breathing in the scent of her. It was a strange smell, nothing like what he’d expected, though far from unpleasant: musty and sweet and smoky and herbal.

“It _is_ armor,” Sarah breathed. “ _Sweet_. Can I touch it?”

Without waiting for permission, she prodded him gently in the chest. He sucked in a breath as she flattened her hand against his breast plate.

“ _Weird_. I thought it would be colder,” she said, and then rapped lightly against his breastplate with her knuckle, and giggled.

“Sarah,” said the Goblin King, his voice coming out somewhat strangled.

She looked up, staring for the first time fully into his face. Luminous green eyes (faintly tinged with red around the rims) widened in recognition. “Hey,” she said, drawing the word out. “Heeyyy. I know you. You’re the Goblin King!”

The next thing Jareth knew, she had thrown her arms clumsily around his shoulders, patted him several times on the back, and then released him.

“Dude,” she said, “it’s been _ages_.”

“Five years,” he said, a bit dazedly.

“Oh, yeah, right, you already said that. Sorry, I’m a bit stoned right now.” She snorted and smiled and tapped her head in self-reproach.

Jareth’s face darkened instantly. He raked his gaze over her, searching for bruising or any other signs of injury. “Who did it?” he asked her, voice low and intense.

She gave him a quizzical look. “Did what?”

“You say you have been _stoned_. Tell me who did this and I swear to you they will pay.”

She furrowed her brow. “Dude, it’s just Mary Jane.”

“Where can I find this ‘Mary Jane’?”

“Oh, I’ve got some on me!” She began to fish eagerly around in her messenger bag, shortly producing a pressed metal tin which, upon being opened, proved to contain a clear plastic sack. “You want a bowl?”

Jareth stared from her to the sack, which upon closer examination appeared to contain a significant amount of something dried, green, and altogether aesthetically displeasing. He felt he had missed some rather important connection.

“I haven’t even _tried_ this stuff yet. S’called “Pulp Fiction.” I got it off this new guy of Maurice’s. He’s a townie, so buying from him is a little sketch and the markup is _ridiculous_ , but apparently it’s some pretty dank shit.” As she chattered, she removed another tin, this one small and circular, from her bag, and opened it up to reveal several rows of metal teeth. “Can you hold this for a sec?” She handed the toothed tin to Jareth, who stared at it in bemusement where it sat on his palm. “Maurice got it for $35, but he says you have to blow the guy to get those kinds of prices and _ew_.” She wrinkled her nose as she pulled a small green clump out of its sack and placed it in the toothed container.

“Speaking of Maurice,” she continued, taking the tin from Jareth’s hand, plopping the lid on and turning it several times, “we should probably wait for him and Davy and Ros before we light up. Hey, you haven’t seen them around have you?”

Jareth smiled a private smile. “These are the three somewhat … excitable mortals lurking in a nearby copse?”

Sarah giggled again. “They _are_ , they’re _such_ excitable mortals.” She emptied the contents of the tin into her hand and exchanged it for a long, peculiar and vaguely obscene looking glass contraption.

“I’m rather afraid an … owl may have frightened them away.”

Sarah paused for a second to push the hair out of her face, the better to roll her eyes. “An _owl_? God, what a bunch of dumbasses. Well, more for us, I guess.” She began carefully lowering pinches of ground green flakes into a cavity in the glass contraption. Then she stopped again, narrowing her eyes at him. “Wait, what was that? An _owl_?”

Jareth only smiled, plaiting his gloved fingers in anticipation. _Now_ she was finally getting it.

Sarah made a strange whining noise which quickly evolved into more snorting laughter. “An owl!” she chortled. “Excitable mortals. An _owl_!” She snorted again. “ _Christ_.” Shaking her head vigorously, she resumed work.

Jareth watched her at her labor, frowning even harder. It was, he supposed, possible, if not entirely _pleasing_ , that she may have forgotten over the years that he was capable of transforming into an owl. But for her to discover she was lost in the woods with only the Goblin King, her former adversary, for company, and to react with such _unconcern_? It wasn’t exactly flattering.

“All packed,” announced Sarah with satisfaction. “You got a light?”

Ah, _now_ he was on familiar ground. With an elegant turn of the wrist, he summoned a round crystal and filled it with a gentle, pearly luminescence. He held it out to her, raising it slightly to ensure the light illuminated his face—this particular light, he knew from long experience, had a quality as eerie as it was flattering.

But Sarah wasn’t looking. Instead, she seemed quite absorbed turning out the pockets of her jeans.

The Goblin King cleared his throat.

No response.

He cleared his throat rather more loudly, and, again receiving no response, said her name. “ _Sarah_.” He winced. Even to his own ears, the tone was rather more aggrieved than dignity made allowances for.

“Huh?” Sarah looked up, and blinked at the crystal in his hand. “Oh,” she said. “Cool glow ball, man.” Her face lit up with sudden triumph, and she pulled a shiny, brightly colored rectangle from her back pocket. A flick of her finger, and the rectangle was on fire.

Jareth started back, the glowing crystal vanishing with a pop, but Sarah, quite unconcerned, had raised the glass contraption to her mouth, touched its cavity with the flaming rectangle, and then restored the rectangle, suddenly and miraculously no longer aflame, to her pocket. She sucked in a breath, her lovely eyes going slightly cross-eyed from the effort. The end of the glass contraption flared cherry red.

She pulled the glass contraption—apparently some sort of pipe—suddenly away from her lips and handed it to Jareth. He watched the little cherry glow flare and die. Surreptitiously, he raised the pipe to his nose and sniffed it.

Sarah choked suddenly, then doubled over coughing, expelling a great cloud of sweet-smelling smoke from her lungs. Jareth took a step forward, horrified but unsure what to do.

“Water,” she croaked.

With a frantic wave of his hand, he conjured a leather water skin and handed it to her. She snatched it from him and guzzled it down.

“Thanks,” she said, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “You good?” she added.

Jareth frowned. It was, to be honest, a question he had never had much cause to consider, and he was quite surprised that it had occurred to Sarah. She had always cast him in the role of unrepentant villain, but now that she asked— _Was_ he good? He was, he supposed, _generous_ , and fair to his subjects—

“Are you _good_?” Sarah repeated, gesturing to the pipe. “Or do you want another hit?”

“Thank you, no,” he said hurriedly, pushing the pipe into her hands. The question of his goodness quite aside, he did not feel himself equal to being hit just now. He felt he’d suffered rather too many blows this evening as it was.

Sarah relit the pipe and raised it her lips again, repeating the same process as before as Jareth watched in mild horror. This time, when she handed him the pipe, he turned away from her, dropping a tiny crystal into the hollow. There was a brief, self-contained inferno which he shielded from her sight with his spare hand—not, he noted grumpily, that she was looking at him—and the contents of the pipe were reduced to ash.

“I think it’s finished,” he announced, attempting a look of innocence.

Sarah took the pipe from him, squinting disappointedly into the hollow. She lit the pipe again and raised it to her lips, but lowered it almost immediately, pulling a face, and emptied the ash onto the forest floor. “Yeah, it’s cashed,” she said. “Sorry, thought I packed more than that.”

“You have my forgiveness,” he said, because even if he _wasn’t_ good, he _was_ generous. Where certain green-eyed mortals were concerned, in any case.

Sarah giggled. “Man,” she said, shaking her head. “Who would’ve thought that I’d be out here, sharing a bowl with the Goblin King.” She giggled again. “Ros is going to think I’m on _crack_.”

She tipped her head back at what looked to be a very uncomfortable angle, gazing up at the canopy overhead. There was a long period of silence. Then—

“I like trees,” she remarked, inanely. “I’m a fan of trees. A tree fan.”

Jareth wasn’t sure how to reply to that, so it was just as well that she jerked her head back down and fixed him with what might have been a business-like stare if it wasn’t so vague.

“Well, _Goblin King_ ,” she said, a strange slowness to her words, as if she were not speaking but blowing bubbles made out of molasses. “It’s been fun, but I think I’d better head back to my dorm, and you’d better—”

She began to giggle.

“You’d better go and—”

Here she actually bent over, snorting and shaking with laughter.

“Steeal some more babieees,” she shrieked, grabbing chunks of hair in both hands and pulling them into her face as she continued to laugh.

By this time, Jareth was well aware that there was not much he could do other than wait these fits out. But this one showed no signs of abating as she rocked and laughed, rubbing her hair about her face until it was a mess of tangles.

“Gob—gob—” she hiccoughed, and then, on a high-pitched whine, “Jareeeeeeettth.”

“What is it, precious?” he asked, coming forward and grasping her lightly by the arms.

“I—I think _that was a lot stronger than I expected!_ ” she squeaked around her continuing laughter.

She pitched forward. Jareth let out an _oof_ of surprise as 120 pounds of intoxicated female collapsed into his chest, but managed to stay upright. He wrapped one arm around her lower back, keeping her in place. Hesitantly, he stroked her arm with his spare hand as she shook with hysterical laughter.

She raised her face to look at him, and he saw that it was red and dotted with tears. “I really really wish,” she hiccoughed. “That I hadn’t smoked that second bowl!”

Jareth sighed with relief. “Granted,” he said, reaching out a hand and tugging at the strings of time.

Her convulsions ceased.

“Oof,” she said, pushing the tangles of hair back from her face. “Thanks, man. That was… intense.”

She made to straighten up. Reluctantly, he released her.

“Seriously,” she continued. “I owe you a solid. Man, moral of the fuckin’ story: never buy ganja named after Quentin Tarantino films.”

Jareth knew what almost none of those words meant, but he nevertheless felt fairly certain that it was not a warning he needed.

“Anyway,” she said, “It’s been cool seeing you and all. Like, weird and trippy as hell, but cool. But I _really_ should get back to the dorm now.” Before he had a chance to protest, she had leaned forward and pressed her lips clumsily to his cheek.

The Goblin King stood frozen, one gloved hand raised halfway to his cheek as Sarah turned and headed out of the clearing.

Started to head out of the clearing, at least.

“Oof,” he heard, followed by a thump. Sharpening his vision, he saw Sarah sitting on the floor, blinking up at nothing.

“Um,” came her voice, “I think you left your … invisible … wall? here?”

With a savage surge of triumph, Jareth remembered what had brought him to the clearing in the first place.

“Could you maybe … move it? Or something? I need to get home.”

“Oh, you will, precious thing, you _will_.”

There was another pause.

“Hey, like, no offense, but do you mind not saying things in such an … ominous tone? It’s kind of creeping me out.”

Jareth smiled. “I think there’s some confusion here, Sarah. You _will_ be going home, but it will not be to the home to which you are used. I’m afraid you’ve found your way into a fairy ring, which means you are bound to this place until released by the spirit of this place.”

“…okay, well, can you point me to this spirit dude? ‘Cause I have an essay for Anthro due on Wednesday.”

Jareth waited.

And waited some more.

Finally, just as he was about to speak and to _hell_ with dramatic tension, the truth dawned.

“Oh shit, it’s _you_ , isn’t it.”

His smile widened. “As you have surmised, it is.”

Sarah scratched her head. “And you’re not going to let me go, right?”

“I’m more than happy to let you go,” Jareth purred, “as long as where you’re going is my Labyrinth.”

Sarah sat back. “Bummer.” There was another pause. “Could I maybe stop by my room first? Get my stuff?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, precious thing.”

“Only I’ve got like, most of a brick in my sock drawer and I’d hate for it to go to waste, you know?”

Jareth decided he could afford to be magnanimous in victory. “I can always send the goblins to fetch it once we return to Goblin City.”

Sarah snorted. “Yeah, for my clothes and shit, maybe, but believe me, you really don’t want them breaking into my stash.” She twisted around to look at him. “You know me just now? Well, imagine _every goblin in Goblin City_ —”

“Yes, I take your point,” Jareth said hastily, wincing. He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on his collar bone. Well, it wasn’t like she could leave the fairy ring. Not without his express permission. “Very well,” he said. “Direct me to the items you need and I will fetch them for you.”

Sarah looked at him dubiously. “Yeah, I guess that would work. But I’m warning you now, Carlie is _really mean_.”

* * *

Sarah’s dormitory proved to be a mere ten minutes away as the owl flies, but once there, the Goblin King immediately found himself in difficulty. Sarah had given him the key to her bedroom, as well a flat rectangle of a shiny, flexible material which, she had explained, he would need to get into the building.

The problem was that she _hadn’t_ explained just how to accomplish this.

He stood in front of the peculiar, boxlike glass door and gestured with the rectangle. “I have been given dispensation by Sarah Williams to enter this building,” he announced grandly. Then, he reached out and tugged on the handle.

The door refused to give.

“Behold, my credentials.” He brandished the rectangle again. “I hold the right to free passage. Now grant me entry.”

The door appeared unimpressed.

Jareth squinted at the door a moment, then attempted to wedge the rectangle in the narrow gap between the door and the frame, but the rectangle wouldn’t fit.

He looked the door squarely in its eye—or at least, in the small box with a red blinking light that he presumed was its eye. It was certainly a poor representation, but from what he understood of contemporary mortal art, standards had rather fallen off. He thought back to his last visit to the Metropolitan Museum of Art—it must have been the better part of an Aboveground century ago—and an exhibition featuring the work of some Spanish deviant by the name of Picasso, and shuddered.

He turned his attention back to the door. Narrowing his eyes, he infused his voice with warning. “Don’t seek to defy me.”

The door remained obstinate.

Jareth sighed. “I didn’t wish to use force, but you leave me no alternative.”

He stepped back several paces, conjuring a crystal and winding back his arm in preparation to throw—

Two humans of around Sarah’s age rounded the corner of the building. Jareth hesitated. A king had to be willing to risk some collateral damage in gaining his goal, but he had a feeling Sarah might be less understanding.

One of the students reached into his pocket and withdraw a rectangle much like the one Jareth had given Sarah. He pressed it directly against the door’s eye. There was a small click and the door opened.

Jareth felt slightly ashamed. It was not a comfortable feeling, nor one to which he was much accustomed. Clearly, the door was near-sighted, and had been unable to see his credentials from such a distance. What a blustering fool he must have seemed, waving them about like that.

Clearing his throat, he approached the door.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, and pressed the card against the eye. “The fault was mine.”

The door clicked and opened.

He inclined his head and then, feeling he ought to make a rather larger gesture to make up for his earlier gaucheness, summoned a trickle of crystal dust and blew it directly into the door’s eye. “A reward for your steadfastness.” Now the door would have distance vision an eagle might envy.

With another nod, he passed inside.

Sarah’s room was numbered, a piece of common sense that had frankly never occurred to the Goblin King, and which he was seriously considering adopting in his own castle. Just let his goblin servants claim they’d gotten lost on the way to clean his bedchamber _then_. Her door, entirely mundane, opened easily with a key in the lock.

Opening it and walking inside, Jareth was greeted by a female voice.

“ _Knock_ , why don’t you?”

He looked around the room. One half was covered in posters and brightly colored tapestries. The desk was strewn with books and papers, with an incense burner hanging precariously over the edge, and the unmade bed was heaped with clothes. The other half was far more simply decorated—the bedspread was a simple gingham check, as opposed to the elaborate patchwork of flowers and scrolls which adorned its opposite number, and the desk was neat and orderly. Sitting cross-legged on the bed reading was a girl with pencil straight hair of a non-descript brown and a face that seemed made for scowling with. As she looked up from her book and took him in, her eyes widened momentarily and her mouth dropped open a little. Then she snapped her jaw shut, scowl more pronounced than ever.

“My apologies,” said Jareth graciously. “I won’t disturb you for long. I’ve simply come to gather some of Sarah’s possessions.”

“Oh god, not _another_ of her stoner friends,” the girl said nastily.

“No?” Jareth couldn’t think what she meant by “stoner,” unless she was referring to that pre-verbal red monster with the curious affinity for rocks that Sarah had, in irritatingly typical fashion, befriended. “Definitely not,” he added, more confidently.

The girl sniffed in evident disbelief.

“If you would be so good as to direct me to Sarah’s sock drawer…”

The girl jerked a thumb over at a wardrobe.

It took a good deal of rummaging. Jareth was briefly but profoundly distracted by the discovery of a cache of lacy and implausibly miniscule garments—he passed several happy minutes contemplating how such articles might be worn and under what circumstances Sarah might be persuaded to model them for him. Surely she would want to bring them Underground with her… Just to have the option of wearing them, at least.

He imagined presenting Sarah with his current fistful of bright scraps of lace. Then he imagined her face. He winced. Perhaps it would be somewhat… precipitate of him to bring Sarah’s lingerie collection unbidden. After all, he told himself, brightening somewhat, he could always send the goblins to Aboveground to fetch them later. Or—reflecting with an even greater wince on the domestic virtues (or lack thereof) of his goblin subjects—he could go himself. Yes, best to go himself.

Putting the lingerie reluctantly aside, he opened the drawer below, which proved to be overflowing with hosiery. Unfortunately, there were no bricks in sight, nor any other kinds of building materials. Unless… There was, in a large, transparent bag, a solid mass of pungent smelling plant matter that was approximately shaped like a brick.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

“Yeah?” the girl said, ungraciously.

This mortal was beginning to rub his feathers the wrong way, but she might still have useful information. He would try diplomacy first, then.

He smiled disarmingly at her. “Carlie, isn’t it?”

The girl flushed a little, but seemed otherwise unmoved. “That’s right. Did you want something?”

“Only a moment of your time. I wondered if you might help clarify a small matter for me. Sarah desired me to fetch her a ‘brick’ from among her personal effects. Might this—” he hefted the bag containing the loaf of green substance “—be the brick of which she spoke?”

At the sight of the bag, Carlie’s eyes grew wide as saucers. “Is that _weed_?” she breathed, hopping down off the bed. She took a cautious, almost reverent step forward, sniffing the air. “Oh my god, it _is_.” Her face cracked suddenly in a vicious smile. It looked unsettlingly right on her, even more so than any of the scowls.

“ _Finally_ ,” she crowed. “There’s no _way_ they won’t expel her for this. This much weed, she _must_ be planning to sell. God—” She looked up at Jareth, eyes misty with anticipation. “Who do I call first? The dorm manager? Security? No.” She shook her head. “Best go straight to the big guns—I’ll call the cops. Let’s see her father try and lawyer his way out of _this_ one!”

She snatched up something black and rectangular, jabbed it several times with fingers which positively trembled with excitement, then raised it to her ear and began speaking into it. “Hi, yes, can you put me through to the Riverview City Police? _You_ —” lowering the phone and directly addressing Jareth, her eyes narrowed, “stay where you are.”

Jareth, who had been edging towards the door, paused. “I regret to take leave of you in such haste,” he said, voice dripping with hauteur, “but Sarah is awaiting my return.”

“I’ll just bet she is,” Carlie sneered. Then, with dizzying speed, she dropped the rectangle, ducked around Jareth, and flung herself in front of the door, barricading it with her body. “She’ll be waiting a while though. You and that weed are staying _right here_ until the police arrive.”

Jareth matched her sneer with one of his own. “I think _not_. Now move aside.”

Carlie bared her teeth in a mocking grin. “No.”

He looked at her, assessing the greed in her eyes, the poorly suppressed jealousy and the longing for revenge. Here was a mortal ripe for temptation. He had no doubt that, with a little persuasion on his part, she could be persuaded to accept a dream crystal and move aside. That was the neatest option, and the one of which Sarah was likeliest to approve.

On the other hand…

* * *

“You _bogged_ her? You _bogged Carlie_?”

They stood at the entrance to the Labyrinth. Sarah had stopped in her tracks and was gazing up at him, the sack containing the loaf of dried plant matter (which, she had confirmed, was indeed known as a ‘brick’) clutched in her arms.

Jareth said, rather stiffly, “I did as I had to.”

He was, after all, a king, and kings could not be seen to tolerate discourtesy. The fact that what he had to do coincided perfectly with what he _wanted_ to do was irrelevant to the discussion at hand.

Sarah goggled at him for a moment. Then she burst into laughter.

“God. Serve her _right_. I wouldn’t mind her being such a bitch if she wasn’t a fucking narc too. Bogged her. Fucking _epic_.” She hit him lightly on the shoulder, grinning up at him. “You know, for a kidnapper with a glitter fetish, you’re pretty cool.”

Jareth preened at her smile and the tone of her voice, although his cockiness diminished somewhat as he processed her actual words. Kidnapper? _Glitter fetish?_

But Sarah was clutching at his arms, eyes wide in sudden alarm.

“Jareth,” she said urgently. “ _Jareth_!”

“What is it?” He curved one arm around her shoulders, drawing her to him and partially shielding her with his body as he scanned for signs of danger. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just—you didn’t _leave_ her there, did you?”

“What?” Jareth frowned. What on earth did it matter? Sarah clearly disliked the girl and had showed every sign of pleasure at her discomfiture. “I may have done. The matter does not concern me overmuch.”

Sarah blanched. “You mean—you mean she’s still _here_? Carlie’s _in the Labyrinth_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were wondering what the moral of this story is, my friends, Sarah already told you: never buy drugs named after Quentin Tarentino films. Not that that ever happened to me or anyone I know. Noooope.
> 
> So yeah. That was a thing that happened. I wrote it. But you read it, all the way down to this second author’s note. I did warn you not to. So tell me: which of us is the more to blame?
> 
> I’m going to go ahead and assume no one got this far, so in the unlikely event that you did and enjoyed it and want more, shoot me a review and let me know!


	2. In which Sarah meets an old friend and Jareth receives a comprehensive education in goblin sporting practices.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come on guys, you think this actually has a plot? You know better than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name of my muse, apparently, is Procrastination. These fits of inspiration only come about when I have something else vitally important I need to be doing. Luckily, I’m not a real adult so the fanfic gets written.
> 
> This chapter is scarcely edited at all, in comparison to the last one. I’ve been just about killing myself over the latest chapter of Tithe (what’s new), so I thought I’d try just writing something and posting it. Plz forgive any errors.
> 
> Soundtrack: The chorus to “Welcome Home, Son” by Radical Face, sung a capella very loudly and very drunkenly, out of key. When you get sick of that, the “shoes” song (remember 2007 you guyz? Don’t actually watch that video, it is terrifying and did not age well).

_ Chapter 2 _ _: In which Sarah meets an old friend and Jareth receives a comprehensive education in goblin sporting practices._

* * *

Jareth was loath at first to deal with Sarah’s wayward roommate, given the pleasing way Sarah was clinging to him in her anxiety. Unfortunately, that anxiety quickly blossomed into full-blown hysteria.

“You don’t _know_ Carlie like I do,” she gabbled, clutching desperately at his cape. “She’s not just a narc, she’s like… the _narciest_. Narcina, Queen of the Narcs. You know what I’m saying?”

Jareth carefully unhooked her fingers from his garments, gently probing at the material to check for damage. Nothing a little pressing couldn’t fix, but _still_ …

“She’ll call the cops on me, man. I can’t get busted, what’ll I tell my parents, you gotta help me!” She flung herself at him, one foot scraping along the side of his boots.

He pushed her away, quite gently, given the circumstances—those boots were _brand new_.

“Very well. You remain here. I will go return your obnoxious little friend to her proper domicile.”

It was the work of a minute, but very unpleasant work at that. Jareth loathed visiting the bog for any reason as it was. But the moment the wretched girl saw him she began shrieking and pointing and wading towards him, bits of bog muck flying off her higgledy-piggledy as she charged.

A snap of his fingers and the girl vanished. He took a moment to fastidiously check his cloak, armor, and boots for signs of contamination. Satisfied that there were none, he transported himself back to the Labyrinth.

Sarah was deep in conversation with a worm, paranoia apparently forgotten. It could, he supposed, be a sign of her trust in him, but he couldn’t shake the unpleasant suspicion that in the time it took to rid them both of that meddlesome co-ed, she’d simply forgotten about him.

He cleared his throat.

Sarah looked up from where she was crouching, and shot him a dazzling smile.

“Hey, this guy’s invited us in for tea! Isn’t that nice?”

“We have tea up at the castle,” Jareth informed her testily. “Come along. It’s further than it looks and the hour grows late.”

After taking an agonizingly protracted farewell from her new friend, Sarah followed him.

“Never accept tea from an invertebrate,” he informed her loftily as they turned the corner. “They invariably oversteep it.”

The journey took them through several of the more striking areas of the Labyrinth. He could, of course, have poofed them all the way to the castle by magic, but he felt the scenic route was rather more impressive.

Sarah certainly seemed struck by it, given by the way she kept darting off into odd corners and side passageways. He’d already had to rescue her from two separate enchanted pools and one rheumatic manticore, and they’d scarcely been walking for a quarter of an hour. Still, he soon found that Sarah could be reliably corralled by the promise of food. How such a slender girl could possess such an enormous appetite was quite beyond him.

“The castle’s this way,” he called over his shoulder.

“You say you got snacks up at the castle, man?” Sarah asked for what was, by his count, at _least_ the eleventh time.

“Do we have _snacks_.” The Goblin King gave a delicate snort and shook his head. “Every delicacy the Underground has to offer, Sarah, shall be laid before you. Mushroom wine and phoenix fritters. Hen’s teeth soufflé. Unéclairs and bakewell tart. Unicorn cheese—”

“You got Doritos?”

“—the golden apple pie of Discord, the golden apple crumble of Eternal Youth, chocolate lava cakes with real lava, ambrosia martinis... And the _fruits_ , Sarah, the _fruits_.” He began, in spite of himself, to grow truly enthusiastic. “Plums like you’ve never seen on the earth. Oranges that taste like pineapples. Pineapples that know how to samba. Apples and quinces, plump unpecked cherries, dream-down-cheeked peaches, apricots, strawberries—”

He stopped his recital and turned around to look at Sarah, a lascivious smile spreading across his face. “ _Pomegranates_ ,” he purred.

Sarah appeared to consider this. “You got Funions?”

* * *

A quarter of an hour later, they had reached the castle.

Now they stood together in an open doorway. The King of the Goblins, his—what? quarry? chosen consort? future lover? beautiful nemesis?—at his side, surveyed his throne room, the seat of his power and dignity.

The King of the Goblins was _not_ _pleased_ by what he saw.

It wasn’t the chaos. He _liked_ the chaos. It kept things lively, unpredictable. _Interesting_. It wasn’t the drinking or the general debauchery. Jareth was never one to turn his nose up at a bit of carousing or revelry, and if goblin revels lacked a certain elegance, they more than compensated in enthusiasm. It wasn’t even the mess. After a few thousand years as the ruler of the Goblin Kingdom, you hardly noticed the mess at all.

But _this._ This was going too far.

His only consolation was that Sarah didn’t appear to notice anything wrong.

“Oh, man, sweet chicken, dude!” she said earnestly. “I’m really digging this whole barnyard throne room vibe. So, how about those snacks?”

Jareth spared a glance for the chicken—one of several dozen, pecking desultorily at the stone floor. It looked like one of his servants had mistaken the throne room for the chicken coop. _Again_. There _were_ downsides to ruling over a perpetually inebriated populace.

The chickens were the least of the problem.

Jareth took a deep breath.

“Quiet!”

His voice cracked through the room like a whip. He was especially proud of that trick. It had taken him several centuries to perfect.

The throne room instantly fell silent, except for the chickens, which continued to cluck listlessly.

Jareth decided he could live with that.

Slowly, taking his time about it, he picked his way across the room and up the steps to the dais.

Placing one foot on the dais, and one hand on his knee, he leaned forward until he was almost eye-to-eye with the tiny, frog-faced goblin which cowered deep in the depths of his throne.

“You’re in my seat,” he said, gently.

The goblin squeaked.

Jareth pointed to the floor.

Slowly, the goblin slid off the throne and onto the ground, a slide made considerably easier by the fact that both it and the throne had only moments before been bathing in a shower of goblin ale.

The goblin cowered on the floor in a sticky puddle, tucking its head under its arm.

Pathetic. Hardly worth the effort.

Still, standards must be maintained.

Daintily, Jareth drew back his foot and booted the miscreant through the open window.

Silence.

“Well?” he said impatiently, glancing around the room.

The goblins burst into a belated chorus of cheers and whistles.

Jareth turned back to his throne, where two more goblins were attempting to hide empty barrels of ale behind their backs, a task complicated by the fact that the barrels were both wider and taller than they were themselves.

He plucked them up by their collars, one in each hand, and held them up to eye level.

“I trust you know what you did wrong?”

“Don’t take baths on king’s chair,” mumbled the one that looked like a foxhound with dropsy.

“And?”

“Don’t pour ale on king’s chair,” burbled the one that resembled like a stunted crocodile.

“And?”

The two goblins exchanged glances. Then the foxhound looking one muttered, all in a rush. “Don’t sit in king’s chair or put fings onna king’s chair or take fings orf king’s chair or touch king’s chair or lookit king’s chair too long or in’eract wiv king’s chair in any way.”

Jareth smiled. That was almost word perfect this time.

“You’ll go far,” he told the foxhound, and dropkicked him out the window.

The throne room exploded into thunderous applause.

Jareth accepted this adulation with a smile and a regal wave of his now empty hand. It had after all been an _excellent_ pun.

* * *

Sarah watched the king exact his justice from where she sat crouched by the doorway, absentmindedly petting a rather bedraggled-looking chicken.

“Harsh,” she remarked to no one in particular as Jareth drew back his arm and sent the second goblin sailing through the air after its fellow.

“Not really,” said a familiar voice from behind her. “Kicking’s about the only thing what gets to ’em these days.”

Sarah fell backward, her butt hitting the stone floor hard. Pushing with her hands and feet, she managed to swivel around, crabstyle.

“Hoggle!” she cried. “Holy _shit_ , it’s so good to see you man!”

“Not man,” Hoggle said peevishly. “Dwar— _oof_.”

Sarah had flung herself forward, wrapping herself around him in an enormous hug.

“Careful there, missy!” came his voice, somewhat muffled, from around the area of her kidneys.

“Whoops, sorry, dude,” she said, releasing him.

“Good thing I’m sturdier than I look,” he said, grumpily, smoothing the wrinkles from his...frock?

“That’s a…new look,” Sarah said cautiously, eyeing the somewhat tatty French maid’s uniform that had replaced her friend’s shirt and jerkin.

“Hmph,” said Hoggle, fastidiously adjusting the lace cap perched atop his bald spot. “I’m on castle duty now. This is the official uniform.”

“I...haven’t seen any of the goblins wearing it,” she ventured.

Hoggle snorted. “Yeah, well. They’re not official, are they? Got to wear the uniform.  Keeps morale up.”

“Whose?” asked Sarah, fascinated.

Hoggle rolled his eyes. “Jareth’s, of course.”

Sarah didn’t doubt it.

“And you’re okay with that? You don’t think he’s maybe…fucking with you?”

“’Course he is, the rat. Still, to tell you the truth—” Hoggle lowered his voice. “I kind of like it.”

“It suits you,” Sarah said positively. The cut was quite conservative, with a high neckline and long sleeves, and with the stark contrast of black and white, somehow, the effect was rather…dashing.

“Yeah, well,” said Hoggle, blushing and ducking his head. “Watch this.”

He did a clumsy pirouette. The skirt and petticoats fanned out like a top.

Sarah was impressed. “ _Duuuuuddde_. Do it again.”

He repeated the motion.

“Man, you’re right, you’ve got some _sick_ twirling action on that thing. Wish I had a dress like that.”

Hoggle glanced around surreptitiously. All eyes were still on the king.

“Reckon I know where I can find one your size,” he said in a grating whisper.

 “That sounds awesome! But first—you know where I can find some snacks? I’ve got munchies something _awful_.”

Hoggle jerked a thumb at the door. “Kitchen’s this way. C’mon.”

Tiptoeing past the still raging Goblin King, they made their way into the castle.

* * *

The goblins had cheered with even more gusto as he tossed the alligator-like miscreant out the window.

“Nice throw!” one of them called.

“Yes,” said Jareth. “I rather think it was. You, with the horns and the droopy nose. And you, with the face like a constipated hedgehog.”

The two goblins in question stumble to something vaguely approaching attention.

“Clean off my throne.”

Scattered applause.

“What about the rules?” asked the one with the droopy nose. It really was a _monster_ of an appendage. The goblin appeared to be having trouble enunciating around it.

“No sitting onna kingchair,” piped up the other. “No farting, no cuddling, no interpretive dancing and _no touching_.”

Jareth put up his eyebrows, impressed. _That_ lecture had been almost three months ago. “I lift that ban for an hour, _only_ for the two of you and _only_ for the purposes of cleaning the chair. If that chair is not sparkling clean within the hour, and I do mean _sparkling_ , I’ll chain your hands together and bury the two of you neck-deep in the Quicksand of Eternal Itching, is that clear?”

One lone goblin gave a whoop and was rapidly hushed.

“Yessir,” said the goblins.

“Get to it then.”

Droopy nose ambled off towards the supply cupboard. The hedgehog stayed where it was, gazing at its king with a speculative look in its eye, or at least, as close to speculative as any goblin could reasonably be expected to manage.

“No farting?” it asked, a somewhat plaintive note in its voice.

“Certainly not,” said Jareth coldly.

The goblin hung its head and began to trudge mournfully across the floor.

“Now, the rest of you.”

An instant hush.

“What,” Jareth made a gesture encompassing the area which had formerly been the entire western side of the throne room and much of the corridor beyond, “is _this_?”

The goblins exchanged glances.

“Slime?” offered one of them.

“Slime, innit,” said another, with more confidence.

“Def’nitely slime.”

“Slime, yeah.”

“Know it anywhere.”

“Raspberry custard?”

“No, you idiot, sli—”

“Quiet!”

The room fell silent once again.

“Why,” asked Jareth, “is it in my _throne room_?”

“Slimeball?”

Jareth passed a hand across his face. “What,” he asked through splayed fingers, “is slimeball?”

The goblins looked at each other again.

“Well?”

One goblin, with a head like a lightning struck broom, cleared its throat. “’S like, a game, yeah?”

“A game,” Jareth repeated flatly.

The goblin hooked two thumbs in its belt loops and leaned back. “You takes a ball an’ you kicks it back ‘n forth until everyone is pissed an’ then you wins.” It stopped and thought for a moment. “Also there are chickens.”

“And the slime was necessary because…?”

The goblin blinked, bowled over by the deep philosophical implications of the question. “A’cuz,” it said, casting desperately around for an answer. “A’cuz…”

It jerked its head up suddenly, a grin of pure inspiration spreading across its homely face.

Jareth winced. “Nevermind.” He could guess the answer.

The goblin was not to be put off. “A’cuz,” it said, slowly and deliberately, “if it din’ ’ave slime… it wouldn’ be slimeball!”

Goblins surged forward en masse to pat the speaker on the back, knocking him face first into the sticky green mass. Others raised their voices in a chorus of agreement.

“Slime!”

“Slime for slimeball!”

“Gotta have slime.”

“Innit.”

“Wot kinda king doesn’ know about sli—”

“Silence!”

Without looking, Jareth thrust a finger in the direction of the last speaker.

“Bog.”

The offending goblin vanished with a pop.

“So,” he said into the silence. “You covered my throne room in slime so that you could play slimeball?”

A few nods.

“An’ slime hockey,” added one goblin conscientiously.

More nods.

“An’ slime _sledding_ , an’ slime _tennis_ , an’ slime _polo_ , an’ slime—”

“Quiet!” Jareth roared, lacing his voice with every ounce of magical compulsion he could summon.

Silence fell once more. Then from the back of the crowd came the sound of a loud, lengthy burp.

The room erupted into cheers.

It was going to be a _long_ evening.

* * *

Sarah and Hoggle made it about two thirds of the way to the kitchen before Hoggle stopped them.

“Door on the right,” he said.

He opened it, peered inside, and shut it hastily, almost catching a corner of his skirt in the door.

“Plain of Melting Clocks,” he muttered. “I hate that place. It’s a _bugger_ to clean.”

Sarah shook her head. “Man, the staircase room, the melting clocks. You guys have a bit of a security problem, don’t you? Or at least a _plagiarism_ problem.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. So if that’s not the kitchen, where is it then?”

Hoggle squinted down the corridor. “Could be two doors on the left, up the spiral staircase and under the floating lake. Or back the way we came, then two lefts, then a right. Or—”

“Are you sure you work here?”

“It’s not _me_ ,” said Hoggle indignantly. “It’s the Labyrinth. It keeps messing around with things!” He shook his head, sighing glumly. “I don’t think it likes me…”

“Hey,” said Sarah. “Don’t sweat it. Let’s just park here for a moment, smoke a quick bowl, then we’ll go check out the kitchens.”

“Smoke a _what_?”

“A bowl. You know, like a pipe? Of hash?”

Hoggle looked blank.

“Cannabis? Marijuana?”

“Are those friends of yours?” Hoggle asked, failing to keep the jealousy completely out of his voice.

“Are those—” Sarah stopped. “Do you not have _weed_ down here?”

“We have weeds,” Hoggle said cautiously. “In gardens.”

Sarah shook her head, an enormous smile splitting her face. “Oh man, oh _man_ —”

“ _Dwarf_.”

“Hoggle, my friend, I am going to _blow your fucking mind_.”

* * *

_Twenty minutes later._

“Snacks,” Sarah moaned, from where she lay sprawled across the hallway floor. “I neeeeeeeddddd—” She stopped and flipped over onto her stomach, pressing her cheek against the rough stone floor. “Omigod, Hoggle you have to try this.”

“ _Gnur_.” Hoggle snorted and snuffled his way to a sitting position. “Wha?”

“This is the most intense thing I ever— Hoggle, man, you are _missing out_.”

“What? What is it?”

“This _floor_.” Sarah raised an arm and slapped it down limply onto the surface in question. “This is without question the greatest floor ever known to man. It’s like… the Beethoven of pavement.”

“Dwarf,” Hoggle corrected automatically. “Ever known to dwarf.” He scowled. Even through the warm and tingly haze of wellbeing, he hated to see Sarah fawning like that over anything belonging to that rat bastard of a Goblin King. Even his flooring. “Wha’sso great about it?”

“It’s just so… cold,” Sarah sighed, turning her head slightly and exposing a blissfully smiling face. “And _stoney_.”

She started to giggle, and nudged him with an outstretched foot.

“Which is perfect, you know, ‘cause we’re so…”

She giggled harder.

“So…”

She curled on her side, shaking and snorting with laughter.

“So what?”

“So _stoned_ ,” she shrieked.

Hoggle looked at her, convulsing on the floor, and began to chortle as well.

Soon the two of them were rolling about on the floor together in paroxysms of mirth.

“Stoney,” Sarah gasped. “ _Stoned_. I’m a genius, dude, I’m telling you. I’m a fucking _genius_.”

“I…” Hoggle struggled to get the words out. “I don’t… I don’t understand… what we’re laughing about!”

Sarah let out an earsplitting shriek. “Me… neither!”

“Shocking,” came a voice from high, high above them.

* * *

The dwarf looked up at Jareth, then groaned and turned his face away, wrapping his arms over his head.

“It’s _Jareth_ ,” he moaned. “I hate him, he’s so _mean_ to me. Sarah, make him go away.”

Jareth scowled. Forty minutes spent trying to instill some sense of discipline in a bunch of deformed, debauched hobgoblins with the collective brainpower of a pickled turnip, all to make his throne pleasant and tidy for Sarah’s homecoming, and _this_ was the welcome he got?

Sarah propped herself on one elbow, squinting up at the Goblin King. She flicked her fingers out at him. “Poof!”

Jareth’s scowl deepened.

“What happened?” asked the dwarf, voice muffled. “Did it work?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Aw, _rats_.”

“If you’re _quite_ finished,” Jareth said cuttingly.

With what appeared to be great effort, Sarah pushed herself into a sitting position. She blew out a breath, ran a hand through her hair, and gave Jareth a charming if unfocused smile.

“Hi,” she said.

Jareth raised a brow. “Have you been enjoying my corridor?”

For some reason, this set them both off again.

“It’s… a really… _really_ good corridor,” Sarah choked out between fits of giggles.

Jareth waited them out, tapping his foot impatiently.

Blast it all, he’d _forgotten_ about the damned dwarf. And just when he thought he had Sarah all to himself! What under the earth had possessed him to give the creature a job in the palace? Certainly it was meant as a punishment, but which of them was suffering now?

He eyed the creature—Huxley? Snuggle?—with profound dislike, noting how the skirt of his official palace uniform—and hadn’t that seemed an _excellent_ joke at the time—had hiked up around his waist. Luckily, the dwarf had seen fit to wear his breeches under his uniform. The alternative—Jareth shuddered—was simply too horrifying to contemplate.

Perhaps he could send the treacherous little scab away again. Send him off to do some weeding around the Bog of Eternal Stench. But _then_ Sarah would be _cross_ with him. Damn and _blast_.

Finally, the laughter subsided.

“Finished?” Jareth asked sourly.

“I think so,” Sarah said. “Hey, we were wondering. Where are the kitchens?”

“Down the corridor, two doors on the left, up the spiral staircase and under the floating lake—”

“Told you,” grunted the dwarf. Twinkle? Hollystone?

Jareth continued doggedly, “—past the dream garden, and through whichever door has the red-rimmed knocker this week.”

“Forgot that bit,” the dwarf said, sheepishly.

Humbert? Snaggle? Oh, what did it _matter_?

“Thanks, man,” said Sarah gratefully.

Jareth felt himself begin to soften a little. It had been a long day, assuredly, but here was Sarah, smiling up at him and looking as lovely as ever, if a bit disheveled. Perhaps now they could—

“Hey,” grunted the dwarf. “What’s that on your shoes?”

Jareth looked at Sarah’s feet. Her shoes _were_ rather dirty. Well, he could soon fix that. Nothing like a brand new wardrobe to—

But Sarah’s gaze wasn’t on her unsavory footwear. Instead, she was looking in front of her, at a spot on the ground just where Jareth was standing.

Jareth felt a sudden spike of horror.

“Looks like some kind of… green slime,” she said, squinting.

_Not_ his boots. _Not_ the tooled wyvern skin with silver inlay and hand-bewitched heels, costing a staggering sum of money, new just this season.

He looked down.

Throughout the castle, mirrors cracked, puddings spoiled.

“Whoa,” said Sarah. “Calm down, dude. They’re just shoes.”

Just… _shoes_ …?

“Can’t you just like, magic them clean or something?”

“Magic them—” Jareth stopped, and took a deep breath.  He’d gone to so much trouble to bring her here. It would most assuredly be a waste to banish her to the desert wilderness now, no matter how _hurtful and ignorant she was being_. “I realize your Aboveground education has been deficient in many areas, magic and _fashion_ notable among them—”

Sarah snorted. “Hey dude, at least I know what century it is.”

“But to answer your question, _no_ , I can’t just _magic them clean_ ,” Jareth snarled.

He chose to ignore the manifest injustice of her remark. He was _perfectly_ well aware of what century it was. It was… something beginning with a two. Or maybe a one. Did Aboveground centuries come in negative numbers? Definitely a two in there somewhere.

Or maybe a seven.

He mustered what dignity he could and drew himself up. “Now, _if_ you’ll excuse me, I have some high matters of state to attend to.”

He turned his back and walked away with light, mincing steps. If he was _really careful_ , perhaps he could keep more slime from being worked into the leather than had been already…

“More like matters of _stilt_ ,” murmured Sarah. There was a pause. “Get it? Because stilts… shoes…”

Jareth grit his teeth.

“Don’t let him get to you. It’s just the shoes,” the dwarf said in a deafening whisper. “He’s funny about the shoes. This one time, when the Champion of Underland was visiting…”

Bugger _this_ for a game of soldiers.

Jareth snapped his fingers.

* * *

Sarah and Hoggle stared at the blank spot of corridor which had contained the Goblin King just seconds before.

“Man, someone could really do with taking a chill pill,” Sarah commented. “Is he always like this?”

“Not always,” Hoggle admitted grudgingly. “It’s the goblins, see? They’re always up to something, that lot. Running around, messing things up. They never stop. And I’m the one who has to _clean it all up_.” He gave a martyred sigh, then slid a glance over towards Sarah to see if she’d noticed.

Sarah was staring pensively into the middle distance. “You know? I bet I know something that could help with that. Where did you say those kitchens were?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: High people are terrible at puns. Apparently. 
> 
> I’ve devoted a lot of time to thinking about this, and I genuinely think a French’s maid’s uniform would be a good look for Hoggle. Not one of those sexy Halloween ones though, like, a proper Downton Abbey one.
> 
> This chapter was supposed to be “Sarah gets all the goblins in Goblin City stoned,” but then it was like, why would she do that, and then everything ran away with me. So now that’s next chapter . Which is in much more the same vein as the first: everyone is incredibly high and misunderstandings abound. Also, a lot more flirting.
> 
> Jareth’s recital of fruit is adapted from Rossetti’s “Goblin Market.”
> 
> My portrayal of the goblins I owe to…virtually everyone. The incomparable Lixxle comes to mind as the most obvious source though, since I’m pretty sure everyone else followed her.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, and/or PMed me encouragement to write more. It’s so nice to know one that I’m not the only lunatic out there. If this chapter made you giggle, please do leave a review and let me know!
> 
> Special thanks to Sazzle76 over at ff.net for her prompt-spirations, none of which found themselves in this chapter but which certainly served to jumpstart my creativity and which will turn up soon. If you’re not reading “The Goblinerette,” you should be. It’s Labyrinth meets Rock of Love. Don’t even pretend you don’t need it in your life. Also to kittyspike08536, in conversation with whom the idea that the Labyrinth is constantly being infiltrated and plagiarized by unscrupulous surrealists came about.


End file.
